wild horses
by endlessly wandering
Summary: "Momma always said we were like wild horses: yeah, we had minds of our own, I guess." AU.
1. chapter 1

_This is not my best work. I apologize. Been having some troubling times at home, which has taken a toll on my mental health and my writing. I won't go into what as that is personal, but it's been hard. I'm sorry for not writing this sooner, but I had nothing to give to you._

 _Thank you for reading, if you have taken the time._

 _-Endlessly_

 **WILD HORSES**

Momma always claimed us boys were like horses; rough with one another, yellin' and hollerin', never taking the time of day to listen to anyone but ourselves.

Yeah, we had minds of our own, I guess. Dad never liked it when Momma called us hooligans or made us stop beatin' on one another; said it was somethin' a boy had to learn to do. He always preached self-defense and protection over the younger boys––which, in our family, only meant me until Pony came along. But that was a less enjoyable time, after Dad and Momma almost separated 'cause of Dad's...issues. I guess gambling and horsing around was too much for her, but it was never too much for any of us.

There was a time where things weren't going as usual. Whether it was because Dad was constantly leaving the house with a wad of cash and then comin' home with nothin' but a few pennies or because Momma suddenly got pregnant, I'll never know. Darry and I knew they loved one another deeply; we'd never encountered a love so strong and endearing as our parents. Their love was like a fine wine––the older it gets, the more you want to drink, and God, did Darry and I get drunk on their love just as much as they did.

But there soon came a time where everyone stopped feeding off of it––Dad especially. There came a time where Dad wouldn't come home until four o'clock in the morning, and Momma, the sweetheart that she was, waited every moment of those sometimes twelve hours for him. Even when the blood started running to her eyes, her body started to deteriorate because she a) wasn't eating, b) wasn't sleeping, and c) definitely wasn't caring for the baby inside of her with both of those things combined, she still waited. There came a time where all she did was wait, wait, and wait, and Dad, the drunk he'd become, didn't seem to give a damn.

Darry and I watched her and him, him and her, and knew that the love was gone. It was gone from Dad's heart, replaced by the tipping of a bottle and the flicking of cards onto a table; but it was still within Momma. It was still there, the fine wine still aging as she did, but Dad had stopped drinking that wine and had moved to a harsher, more livelier substance.

He stopped preaching of self-defense and protection and instead preached about the wonders of beer and whiskey. He stopped his talk of how a man should never grow a beard, for it made him look like a pussy; and instead, he grew one, a long one at that, and allowed himself to become one. He stopped his praise for our good deeds, only praising us as "his good, strong boys" when he heard the fridge opening and the clanking of beer bottles against one another.

Momma claimed Dad was the wildest horse of all, and we were still her small colts, in need of love and care that only she could now provide. He was wild, all right; drunken rages were common when Darry and I were growing up. We hated the way he talked to us, so much to the point that we answered out of fear rather than genuine curiosity. Momma took the beatings, the cryings, the spittings and the eventual hailing to God as he finally––finally––passed out on the couch.

* * *

 _To be continued._

 _Thank you again for reading._


	2. chapter 2

_thank you to 1000splendidsuns, lulusgardenfli, and HappierThanMost for reviewing. I'll always be appreciative of the reviews I receive._

 _To be honest, I was sort of afraid to post this. It doesn't really go anywhere or makes much sense to me in context... I'm sorry. But no matter – let's go._

 **wild horses**

Momma always woke up alone.

It was startling at first; we hadn't any idea where Dad had gone. Back then, we didn't notice the booze spilled on the counter or the reek of whiskey soaking through the walls. Back then, our only concern was being a child, being so innocent and carefree that nothing could make us feel any more alive.

It was Darry who first suggested we go on a mini "search party" for him. Being four years older than me, Momma seemed to trust him with the task, and so she'd let us go on our little adventure. She'd told him to watch me, to not me out of his sight; and as if he were already an adult, or of legal age of protecting such a small child as I had been, Darry'd said, "I got him, Ma. Don't you worry."

I was only about four, mind you, but I knew a lot about the woods behind our house. I knew every branch and every strip of wood on the trees like I'd known nothing else. Darry watched me good; yelled at me when I got too far ahead, caught me when I stumbled on a rock or whatever, and even gave me piggyback rides around in those same, dusty-colored woods. Those were the good times.

We found him sitting hunched against the darkened bark of a birch tree in the way back of the woods. It was odd, seeing him so sound and peaceful; I couldn't tear my eyes away, and I still remember Darry walking slowly towards him with me hiding behind his knee. I still remember the way Darry gently touched his shoulder, and at the contact, Dad shot awake and glared at him in hot, boiling anger and started screaming obscenities. Words that I never heard of, didn't want to know the meaning of, and have never let touch my tongue to this day.

I remember Darry calmly ordering him to get up, almost like the roles were reversed. They looked a hell of a lot alike, Darry and Dad; same eyes, same build (even at six for Darry), same demeanor. Everything about them was nearly identical, except for the obvious fact that Darry didn't drink. I remember Dad spitting in Darry's face, a full wad smearing along my brother's tanned cheek, and boy did that make Darry's blood boil. So much so that he'd grabbed Dad by the hand and started physically dragging the poor, drunk, sad bastard away from his hiding place and back towards the house.

When you're as young as I was and have to watch your six-year-old brother drag your forty-something-year-old father across grass and dirt, it really takes a toll on you. But, when you're as young as I was and want to do anything to help, you ask what you can do. Darry's response to my question still makes us laugh to this day:

"Take his finger, for God's sake, and tug." But by God did I tug on that finger so hard that my four-year-old mind was sure it would've fallen off had I done it any longer.

It took forever, but somehow we managed to break through the trees. I remember Darry screaming for Momma so loud that his voice cracked even more than usual. I remember her stumbling out onto the white porch, seeing her six and four-year-old dragging their own deadbeat father along the dirt road and running for us. She had tears rushing down her face at the sight of all three of us; pity for our father, and a saddened reality for us two boys.

Darry still thanks me for doing what I did. Four-year-old me, grinning from ear to ear, tugged again at my father's hand and cried to Momma, "Look, Momma, I helped!"

If you've ever been looked at with as much love, as much adoration, as much sincerity in my actions as my Momma looked at me in that moment, you know what that feels like. "You did, sweet boy," she'd said in that heavenly-Southern voice of hers, "You most certainly did."

Momma always woke up alone. But she always knew that Dad would eventually return to her, whether on his own or by Darry dragging his sorry ass back to her, and that was enough.

* * *

 _A less...sad take, I guess, but still kinda emotional._

 _Thank you for reading._

 _-Sunny/Endlessly_


	3. chapter 3

_Thank you to lulu, Happier, and my newest reviewer, CriminalOutsidersGirl14, for reviewing! I'm so happy that you're enjoying this despite the dark content._

 **I ask that you read this chapter at your own risk.**

 **WILD HORSES**

There's something about seeing your youngest sibling come home in the arms of your mother that makes everything go on pause. The thought of this beautiful creature being held where you once did, nursing where you once did, and even sleeping where you once did blurs everything into a black nothingness.

For a long time, Dad always preached about having sons. It was the one thing that he wanted; he got it with Darry and me, but it wasn't enough. Two wasn't enough––he wanted more, and at the time, Momma wanted a girl. She once told me that I was meant to be a girl, with my long eyelashes and shit, but Dad casually brushed it off by saying I would grow out of my "girlish" looks. By the age of seventeen, I'd done as he'd asked, but he never saw it; neither did Momma.

So when Darry and I anxiously peered down at the face of our newest sibling, it was odd seeing a non-manly face. This kid's face was softer, almost like a girl; and Momma was glowing, smiling like she'd just seen heaven or something. Dad, however, wore a scowl like he wore his beard––long and in your face.

It was Darry who spoke first: "That ain't it, is it?"

But where Dad didn't even so much as look in his son's general direction, Momma looked at him with every emotion burning in her soft green gaze. "Boys," she'd said, her voice soft and quiet, "meet Rayne, your sister."

Darry and I had shared a look. "Sister?" We couldn't believe it; there was no way this blubbering thing was a girl. But the sheer look of pride in Momma's gaze confirmed our worst fear, and what once was a sweet moment between a mother and her three children turned to hell as Dad spoke.

"Didn't even know I could do that."

The love in Momma's eyes turned into a heated fire of annoyance, and she muttered low enough so he didn't hear, "Yeah, well, it ain't just you; somebody else did all the work."

I heard Darry stifle a laugh at her words, and Dad stormed up to him and asked, "What're you laughin' about, boy?" to which Darry replied a quick "nothing" and Dad went on his way. His hand caught the back of my shirt and at the sudden feel of another body being dragged with him, he turned and thrust me away, almost making me topple onto Momma. Almost like a ghost, Darry followed Dad and retreated back into his bedroom, shutting the door rather quietly.

"You're gonna protect her, you hear?"

I looked at Momma and nodded. "With my life."

* * *

We caught glimpses of it, sometimes.

Like in the way Dad would make two cups of coffee in the morning; how he'd sneak into the bedroom and kiss Momma awake. Like in the way he would hold her close to him as if the whole world were about to implode on itself. Like in the way Momma cried over him not coming home for hours on end, and in the way Dad would sometimes apologize the next morning for being such a shitty husband and father.

But those glimpses were rare; Dad not being drunk was rare.

However, in those seldom glimpses where he was fine, it was nice to actually have a father who gave a shit. It was nice to watch him smile and laugh and kiss Momma like they used to. It was nice watching him look at you and know you didn't do anything wrong, or at least not feel like you're gonna get the shit beat outta you.

"I think I like this guy," Momma said one day while we were getting ready to go out to the park. Darry and I had been begging her to go somewhere with us for weeks, and Dad seemed to be picking himself up, so she'd agreed.

"What guy?"

She smiled once of those rare smiles; ones full of endearment for the man she married. "The guy that doesn't make me want to rip my hair from my head each and every night."

I watched Dad come up behind her, his hands low on her hips. "I like that guy. He's a looker."

Momma laughed one of those laughs that only people in love can muster. "I would know," she murmured, and my heart sank with how much love she had in her eyes. "I married him, after all." Dad smirked that same, cheeky lopsided grin of his––the one I now use like it's been mine from the beginning––and kissed her in one go.

"Gross," Darry sighed loudly, and they broke apart, both sets of eyes staring both of us down humorously. "Can we go now?"

"Yes, yes," Momma shrugged herself away from Dad's hold and took one of our hand's in both of hers. Worry had been in her voice as she asked, "Can I trust you?"

Dad snorted like it was the dumbest question. "Have I ever given you a reason not to?"

We all knew the answer to that, but even so, Momma let the slamming of the front door respond for her.

* * *

Not even an hour went by for anything to happen, but even still, we knew.

It was apparent by the sight of Dad asleep on the couch that made a grim feeling settle on the entire house. A bottle of beer and seven shot glasses were thrown and broken at his feet; classic Dad.

It was apparent by the empty play space that something was wrong. It was apparent by the sounds of running water coming from the bathroom where Momma had gone that something was wrong. It was apparent by her shriek of terror that Darry and I bolted to the shut door and threw it open, the blood in my body ceasing to flow at the sight that lay before my eyes.

Momma was there, completely soaked, her body shaking. Sobbing was the only thing coming out of her mouth, and when she looked to Darry and I, the look in her green eyes was of utter loss. We stood there for what seemed like years just watching her. Just watching the pain cloud over her eyes, falling from them in the form of tears before filling up again. We watched her body crumble bit by bit until she was nothing but a hollow soul. We felt her pain like it was our own; we cried but she didn't see.

We listened to her as she sobbed, cried, cursed to God and to our father for doing what he did, listened as she whispered her baby girl's name over and over like it was the only syllable she knew. I watched my mother sob and break down like it was the most beautifully tragic thing I'd ever seen.

Momma never forgave him; never forgave God, never forgave our father.

Dad didn't even stir while his wife lay on the bathroom floor, crying and losing herself with each mutter of her daughter's name as her sons looked on helplessly.

* * *

 _I know I've said I've cried when writing scenes before, but... not like this. Not of this tragedy and of this magnitude._

 _-Endlessly/Sunny_


	4. chapter 4

_Thanks for coming to this next update. :) So sorry it took a while––I've been meeting with my old mathematics teacher for ACT help/prep and also been going on college tours and stuff._

 _And, if you don't know, I'm in the band at my school which takes up a lot of my summer. I will most likely not update from August 6th-11th as I have band camp and I am a co-section leader this year, so I have to be on my A-game for the rest of my section. That means I won't be writing as it's nearly 8-9 hours every day and it exhausts me to the point where I go to bed at literally 7:00 PM. XD_

 **wild horses**

They look at one another like strangers would across the bar, across the stage, or across the street.

They look at one another like they don't know who the other is anymore. I see it in Dad's eyes, mixed so deeply with whiskey and beer that the strangeness of looking at the woman he married is almost blinded by the alcohol. I see it in Momma––in the way she moves, the way she talks, the way she looks at Darry and sees her husband in her own son, her own flesh that is just as much of her as it is him.

She's like a machine; oiled and fueled by her love, her passion, her will to stay with him. He's just a bitter excuse for a father; he loves the drinks and the way it makes him feel more than his own wife, more than his own children. It's sickening––feels like poison has entered my body, crawled under my skin, undergone the journey through my veins until it reaches my heart and then I, like my father, will cease to feel any emotion than the rush of that poison, that sickening feeling.

She's so in love with him; and God, it hurts to see it. He makes love to whiskey and shot glasses, and she's in the corner, begging to be noticed like a posh little girl.

It's sad; remorseful; unthinkable, that a woman could love a man with so much of herself and go unnoticed in the eyes of him. But she still tries––still tries to show him that he has a life outside of the drinking; still tries to love him despite the long, dark nights; still tries to throw herself at him in the hopes that he will love her, that he'll notice her, and nothing ever comes out of it.

No reward; no love; nothing but a hiss and a drunken slur, and she's off of him and away in the bedroom, where her cries echo in my dreams.

Darry and I go to bed at night and hope that they both wake up the next morning. That Momma isn't slipping deeper into the cracks of despair, that Dad isn't drinking himself to death. It's enough to make us unable to sleep, the fact that one morning, we might find Dad on the couch and Momma somewhere other than the bed.

It's a wonder she's still with him; a wonder he's still here. I'm the slightest bit thankful for both those things.


	5. Chapter 5

_Finally back from a tedious and exhausting week of band camp! I hope you're all happy I'm back because I know I am._

 _Not a whole lot to say today, other than the usual thank you to Happier and CriminalOutsider'sGirl14. Appreciative of you always._

 _It's a rainy evening/night here in my hometown, so here I am._

 **WILD HORSES**

She'd be happier with another man.

That much I've known for more than half of my life. She could've had another man; could've loved another man with as much love as she loved our father, but instead, she did nothing but wait, and wait, and wait. He always made her wait; but she waited like a posh little girl he always deemed her to be, never worth more than what he insinuated or desired her to do.

There were nights when I was younger that I would imagine her with someone else. Someone who loved her; someone who took care of us; someone who made the life come back into her eyes. Someone that we would come home and see and not wonder where they went or if they would come back; and if they did, why they came home in the first place only to go out and do the same old shit again.

I imagined Momma with someone else because I _wanted_ someone else for her; for me; for Darry. I _needed_ someone else; I needed a father, not a drunk. Darry needed a role model; not a drunk. Momma needed a husband; we all needed someone, but we never got that someone. Whether it was God's wish or Momma's compassion for the man who hit her and practically made love to a bottle more than his own wife, I'll always resent that time in my life.

Momma claimed that she loved him more than she loved herself; that she would never be loved by another man other than him because she was too sloppy, too disheveled, too busy with everything in her life to ever receive that kind of affection. To be loved by another man would kill her, she said; to be loved by a better man, a happier man, a more desired man, would ruin her.

She'd be happier with another man; and if that ruined her, even killed her, then she'd go more loved and cherished in life than she was in death.


	6. Chapter 6

**wild horses**

I hope he's up there praying.

Praying for all the bullshit he did to us; praying and hoping that Momma, even in death, would forgive him for what he did to her. Praying that Darry and I have grown up and have followed his policies and regulations that he always preached about––ironically, with a bottle of scotch in his hand.

Darry's never drank a bottle of beer in his life; I'm what you'd call a social drinker. We've both taught Ponyboy that the shit messes you up––even have gone as far as not keeping the shit in the house. After Dad died, everything was thrown out; including the pictures of all five of us, only because he was in them.

And maybe that's cruel of me, as his own son, to throw away the only memories I have left of him. Maybe that makes me naive, to think that I can just wash away his memory like he washed away my existence. Maybe it makes me nothing to him––maybe it makes me everything to him. I guess I'll never know.

Maybe he's in heaven with Momma; maybe he's in hell. I guess I'll never know.

Is it cruel that I don't give a damn where he's at, just as long as he's trying to go against his previous behavior? Is it bad that, after what has felt like a lifetime of having him gone, I still feel his hand slapping me upside the head and telling me to use my head more? Is it bad that I don't know where he's at, don't want to know where he's at, but hope to God that he's trying to better himself?

Whatever it is, wherever he is, I hope he's praying. Praying for some sort of forgiveness; perhaps mercy.

I guess I'll never know.


	7. finale

this breaks my heart. it's coming from a place deep within me, and I hope it isn't too bad of a write. thank you for all the support.

 _to my little horses,_

 _It's Momma, darlings. Momma's here, babies. Well, figuratively, for by the time this is held in my oldest baby's hands, I'll be gone from all of you._

 _My boys; my whole life was you. All three of you-my life, my heart, my soul. I have so much love in my heart for all three of you; but I also have a lot of regret._

 _I have always wanted children; so it isn't you. In my life I have made many mistakes, and living in what is only the worst life to live has to be the cherry on top of the Mistakes-of-My-Life ice cream. But, if you're not too angry or sobbing yet, allow me to start this off by saying I'm sorry to you._

 _Darry. My strong, strong boy, who taught me that strength is earned, not given. My first born, and the first love of my life. My first of everything-crying, late nights cuddling you, even diaper changing. You were my first, baby; the first to have me wrapped around your little-and eventually big-finger. You won my heart from the moment you were born. In you, I see two people: I see both my protector and, in times where I wasn't straight in the head, my abuser. But even though you look like him, you are nothing-nothing-like him, Darry. Don't ever think that I cowered and sobbed in your lap like a child when you were so young because I thought you would hurt me like he did; it was because I had no one to go to. You were my strong boy, my strength in all the hard times. You were closest to your father, and I understand. I don't regret that you were-you made him human again, baby, and that's something I hadn't seen from him in a long time. Thank you, baby; thank you. Raise your brothers to be great men like you. I love you; first and foremost._

 _Soda. My sweet, sweet second; my little buddy, as I called you often when you were growing up. You are the epiphany of an amazing boy-an amazing son and an amazing man. You are the light of my life; my laughter in sorrow. From the moment you were born I knew you were going to be something I always tried to protect. Both you and your brother at the time meant the world to me; all of you are everything to me. I have always told you that we're forever, never apart. This is no different, honey. I'm here, I'm here, and I'm never leaving. I love you, my sweet, sweet boy. I love you forever._

 _Finally, my literal baby boy: Pony. I'm so sorry I couldn't see you grow up into what I can only call an exact copy of your two older brothers. I'm so sorry I left before I could see you graduate, before I could see you go to college. I'm sorry I'm missing all the big moments, baby. Please know I never intended on that; life just does that sometimes. Before you were born, your father asked me if we could start again; and, at the time, he was drunk as usual, so I didn't believe him. But one night he said it again, and again, and again until I agreed. I didn't know what we were starting, but I could only hope it was something worth while._

 _You were that something, Pony. You were our start again, and God, have I never been more sad and in love with you all at the same time. Darry resembles Daddy in looks, but you have his eyes. The exact same shade of pine green, mixed with brown, as if the universe knew we were meant to end up together. You have your father's eyes, baby; take pride in that, even in all the crap you'll get, for it's something I would've resented you for all the days of my life. I'm sorry for that too. I love you, my little colt; always._

 _You'll have heard that your father and I have passed. Except we didn't get hit by that train like it seemed._

 _Did we get hit by a train? Yes. Did we die? Obviously. Did we love all three of you with as much of ourselves as we could? Everything and more._

 _But what you don't realize-what you haven't been told-is that I'm driving that car. I'm driving it along two streets, two that I could easily turn down and come home, but I don't. I stop. I look to your father, drunk and slumped in the front seat._

 _The train calls through the distance as if telling us to move. But I don't. Instead, I continue to look at your father and turn the ignition, silencing the car._

 _At that time in my life, I felt nothing._

 _The train called again._

 _I felt nothing._

 _And again. Louder. Louder. Screaming._

 _I was nothing._

 _I pressed a kiss to your fathers lip, silently cried over his body, before everything went quiet._

 _I'm sorry I didn't come home, babies. That is my biggest regret of all._

 _with all the love,_

 _Momma_


End file.
